Lifeless Dance
by onewing
Summary: What happens when a man loves the angel of death? The former swordsman is caught on the edge, trapped with a far too tempting and dangerous creature. Sephiroth/Kuja pairing
1. Sephiroth

Disclaimer: Still don't own, Square Enix does.

Notes: It was a bit difficult figuring out where to put this. So I rolled a dice and took a gamble. ;) On the flip side, here's another Sephiroth/Kuja pairing. Totally need more around this place. As is, short opening for what I hope to be a long series. Title is subject to change by the way. Hope you all enjoy. :)

Lifeless Dance

* * *

Long legs, stretching, moving, never staying still. Twisting, turning, flowing in a constant motion of slender, tall limbs, that were clad in black velvet. Shoeless, just like he always loved, bare feet hitting soundlessly upon the stage. Those legs led up to delicate, curved hips. Too curved for a boy. Yet the tightness of those velvet pants assured any viewer that he was indeed male. Though, there was only one viewer.

Those hips rocked, swaying with ease, while those ever so flexible legs moved, one lifting clear up, as his body bent back, balanced so carefully on one foot. A coy look, the other knew he liked watching as his body danced, nothing hindering his erotic play across the wood of the old stage.

He settled both feet to the stage again, but never stopped going, hips shaking, leading up to his bare abdomen, on. Tight shirt, just barely covering a thing, melded to his very skin, black, just like his pants. It clung, perfect, showing every detail, until it went past the shoulders. Hanging close till just at the edge of the shoulder, the sleeves spilled down gentle arms, covering over rich skin, pale as the moon. They flared with every move he made, giving the illusion a more mystical feel.

A collar of black silk was tight about his slender neck, though he didn't show how tight it was. On, perfect features, to fit the perfect body. Balanced between feminine and masculine, it was almost hard to tell which he was.

Silken hair, shimmering white, which shone teasing lilac in the sharp lights, spilled down his back. Those waved locks almost hid deep violet blue eyes, which glittered dangerously out to their one man audience, promising the world in one moment, death in the other.

This creature, this creature was something unpredictable, something foreign, enchanting. A killer with honeyed skin, kiss me lips, beauty unmatched.

How many had died seeking entrance into paradise?

He didn't want to be the next.

But it was so tempting, as he watched that form move, glide, grace defined.

So full of soul, he wondered if this was the angel of death clothed in flesh.

Then, he would remember, he was.

What happens when a man loves the angel of death?

He was an angel himself, fallen, a god from a world he had tried to destroy, only to fail.

This is what had landed him there. In this hell.

If it could be called hell, really, he had just been locked in this one room, with this tempting creature.

This demon in angel cloth, which he could not touch, but thirsted to.


	2. Kuja

Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews. Loved your thoughtful words, and adore knowing there are other Seph/Kuja fans out there.

* * *

He did not know time nor did it really matter anymore to the one that had died fearing the lack of it. He did know pain, he did know aches. His legs were a constant reminder of strain, never stopping, never allowed to stop. His grace was spilling over, almost divine in his moves. And he wished he could stumble, could fall, just for a second of rest. Though, no, he was trapped, unable to break the spell that bound his limbs. Just as his audience was, unable to do more then watch.

He vaguely wondered which was a worst torture. Not that he cared, he only wanted to be free. Though, there seemed no hope for that. Tilting back, he studied his one man audience, as he had a thousand times before. That was one thing he never grew tired of. The man was beautiful, in the sculpted, perfect sort of way. Much as he saw himself as perfect, this one matched him. Silver of hair, bright of eye… He wanted him, desperately craved to touch that marble like skin, to draw blood from him, and be hurt by him. He wanted to feel more then those dull aches and tiredness. Should he suffer, he wanted true pain and true emotion. Not the pathetic echoes he had long endured.

But how…

The other desired him, he knew that, could see it. But never did he move, and the dancer wondered if he could.

He eventually decided to tempt him, to see if he would. He could never stop dancing, but he could change the dance, had done so to keep himself from becoming too bored. Reaching for the hem of his shirt, he slowly pulled it up, even as his hips rocked, and his eyes caught his watcher's. Slowly, he bared his skin, stripping the shirt off till it was over his head, and falling to the floor. The air seemed colder to his half bared flesh, yet he persisted.

_/Please, touch me. Stop me, stop me, touch me,/_ the mantra repeated in his head as he rolled his hips forward, stretching his torso back, exposing every rippling muscle in his slender chest.

Pulling himself upright again, bowing a bit forward, his hair curtained before his face, half hiding his eyes for a brief moment, though he studied his prey through the silvery violet locks.

Unmoved, that constant interest sparking through those strange, excitingly dangerous eyes that just glowed, but no movement. Not even a shift.

He'd raise the stakes then, he'd put it all on the line for just a reaction. A sign of life, that they both weren't stuck to their wretched roles. And if they were, at least he would not be the only one suffering, he refused to be that.

_/Please, stop me, touch me, touch me, stop me,/_ his fingers moved low, tracing down the plains of his chest, mapping out what only he knew so well.

Reaching his pants, he found the hidden clasps at the sides. A mere flicker of his right hand, and one side opened, revealing the smooth pale skin of his hip. He pulled himself forward, daring the edge of the wooden stage, hips rotating, the movements inching that skin tight velvet down.

Still nothing, not a bit of a hint that the other even wanted to move. Nothing, and it made his teeth grit behind his lips. He didn't show his frustration, would not, his pride so great even after death.

_/Stop me, stop me, touch me, take me…/_ his movements grew more rigorous, the other clasp coming undone, that hold on his legs falling defeated to the floor, where he stepped from them, kicking them towards his shirt.

Completely exposed, he made sure every piece of skin was for display, anything to get what he craved, anything for just a spark of frustration at the least, to know that the other wanted him, was raging with the urge to take him, if not for whatever held him constantly to his own role.

Nothing.

Tail swinging, curling about him, teasing himself to the point of making his skin flared. Tricks that had brought many a victim to his deadly arms.

Nothing.

_/Take me, touch me, stop me, take me, take me, kill me. Kill me!/_ he knew, knew the other wanted him, but he couldn't understand how hopeless it seemed to even get a fraction of what he wanted so desperately.

The man still sat, unmoved, refusing to betray why, by punishment or his own will. Those cool eyes still stared at him, with that ever constant fire, without change. If not for his breathing, Kuja would have believed him nothing more than a statue.

_/Please kill me./_

A failure then, the same as just trying to stop dancing. He wanted to scream, to vent the wretchedness of his fate out from where it was building in the cage of his chest. Yet, he didn't, turning instead, intent on dancing back to his clothes, and putting them on. He would not lose face over this. If this was their fate…

Only just as he reached the pile of discarded clothe did he hear the slide of metal from metal, before cold steel touched his neck, sharp against the delicate flesh there. In contrast, a warm arm wrapped about his waist, pressing him back against rough leather and more chill metal that covered a hard body.

His breathing picked up, but far from fear. After dying, there was little that could bring that emotion to the surface.

He couldn't hold his body still, it constantly rocking even as that hold grew tighter, the sword nicking the pale space of his neck.

"You were tempting me," the voice purred in his ear, the other having to bend his neck down to reach it. There seemed vague amusement there, as well as threat.

"Yes," Kuja breathed, eyes falling half lidded, coy even in the face of having his head taken from his shoulders.

"Not a wise move," that hand at his hip was moving down, just daring, but not quite.

"I'm used to foolish moves," unknowingly, the mild movements his body made were slowing.

"So it seems," a pause, the sword pressed a bit closer, causing blood to trickle down, warm as it ran, staining white, "What is your name?"

"They called me the Angel of Death, I call myself Kuja," he pressed back into that strong body, tail restricted between himself and the other, "Do I get the same pleasure?"

"They called me Sephiroth, I called myself god," that brought a smirk to Kuja's face. He knew exactly how that was.

"Well," cooing a bit, he turned, despite the almost crushing hold on him, not even realizing his constant dance had stopped as he stared up into those burning eyes, "If you call me Kuja, I'll call you god."

Studying him for a long moment, something almost like a smile twitched at Sephiroth's lips, before he craned his neck down fully, brutally taking Kuja's tempting ones. Kuja heard that sword sheathed before that other arm moved to behind his neck, burying into his hair as it pushed his head up, forcing down the full strength of that wage for power against his mouth. It made his jaw ache, but he reveled in it, submitting against it only at his leisure.

He'd won.


End file.
